Coffee Flavored Scotch
by MindBottled
Summary: She was like a cup of coffee after a hangover; strong enough to put you back together, but casual enough to brush off as an everyday ritual and not the necessity that it, in fact, was.


**Disclaimer: **I do not own anything from Inception. Those rights belong to Christopher Nolan.

**Author's Note: **This one-shot idea popped into my head the second time I watched Inception.

**Pairing:** one-sided Eames/Ariadne; hints of Arthur/Ariadne

* * *

Eames never considered himself to be a man that was easily infatuated by a pretty girl in a skirt, that was more Arthur and Cobb's territory. After the team's final mission with Cobb before his impromptu retirement, he began to feel a growing sense of unease when he couldn't shake away the image of the team's newest architect, Ariadne. The feeling soon intensified after Arthur announced that they had begun dating(courting seemed a more appropriate term for that stick in the mud), being unable to offer little more than a wince of smile to congratulate them.

In the moments when he wasn't trying to rid himself of this newly acquired feeling, he often wondered why she held such a power over him. Compared to most women that shared his company, she was an oddity. Her gentle and caring nature was nothing like his preferred company, someone who took life as a comical farce, too afraid to show anything but lust or sarcasm. She wasn't naïve, but she certainly wasn't scarred by the world yet. After a few years of work at inception all that would change, it always did. Or perhaps Arthur would see to it that she never saw as much as she needed to, never allowing her to see the destruction a simple job could do. He always held onto the latter as a hope but it never stopped him from going out of his way to make sure she didn't see the destruction he caused during a heist.

After a particularly difficult mission he stayed behind in the backroom of the warehouse as the others were preparing to leave, saying something about needing to collect some files or some rubbish like that, knowing they didn't buy it for even a second. He didn't care if his ruse was seen through just as long as he didn't see the new happy(solemn seemed a much more appropriate terming) couple, unable to bear to see them exchanging a chaste goodbye kiss, a seemingly innocent act that made his stomach churn. He could never understand why she preferred the company of the man bound by rigid constraints instead of the dreamer that was right in front of her, as lost and alone as she was. But the truth he was desperately trying to hide from himself was in the next room over and he tried to ignore the feeling of once more being crushed by the tons of concrete that so often landed on him during their jobs.

After waiting a few minutes, he reemerged, a flooding sense of relief washing over him now that neither Arthur or Ariadne were in sight. As he made his way to the front gateway of the warehouse, it dawned on him that he may have spoken too soon, the whirrs of the machine steadily becoming louder with each passing step. Arthur was never one to fancy the dreamscape, most likely having been shot one too many times in them to ever feel fully comfortable there. That could only mean that it was Ariadne, the idea alone making his heartbeat quicken as he made his was over to the area.

There she lay, fast asleep in one of those horrid lawn chairs(he was sure Arthur had picked them because they were as practical as he claimed to be) connected to the machine, seduced by the chance to create a perfect world in her dreams. He thought about interrupting her dreams by putting on the façade of Arthur, if only to just get a glimpse of the way he desired her to look at him instead of the character he was performing. With most women he'd be eager to take advantage of such a situation, always accustomed to getting his way with his wit and charm, but it seemed almost wrong to treat her in such a way. He looked toward the extra cannula with something similar to regret playing on his features before turning away, eager to make his way to his hotel room and as far away as humanly possible from the petite brunette.

His own dreams offered him no reprieve from her, tormenting him almost as much as their workplace ventures. During tonight's dream he managed to find himself at his favorite pub in England, one he hadn't ventured into since he first started working as a thief lest someone recognize him. The dim lighting and the mahogany counters seemed to him to be as good of home as any as he took his usual seat in the far right corner, away from the prying eyes of most patrons. Contrary to popular belief, he didn't love the spotlight as much as he led on, though he did love to watch the bustling figures of others eager to get into their own form of mischief. When he went to make his usual order, a scotch on the rocks, the barkeep informed him that it had been paid for by the pretty young lady to the left. It was then that he looked over and spotted her, only a seat or two away, smiling prettily at him. As he walked over to her, she immediately says how good it is to see him, before leaning in to receive a kiss. As soon as his lips come crashing onto hers he wakes up, a cold sweat covering his brow.

It was on this night that he drank himself into a stupor, visions of her haunting him even when he was wide awake. Nothing seemed to be strong enough for him though, still managing to catch a glimpse of her out of the corner of his eye, fumbling for his own token to show he wasn't dreaming. The weighted poker chip remained singular, never multiplying, it's answer ringing clear as a bell. He wasn't dreaming, he was simply drunk and disillusioned. The next morning he fixed himself a pot of coffee equally as strong as his liquor, in a futile attempt to rid himself of the throbbing headache that would inevitably be plaguing him.

He poured himself a cup and took a look inside at the steamy liquid, unable to mar the gentle grace of the amber fluid with his usual cream and sugar. The deep coloring reminded him of her eyes, which in turn made him reminisce over her. She was like a cup of coffee after a hangover; strong enough to put you back together, but casual enough to brush off as an everyday ritual and not the necessity that it, in fact, was. It was only when he thought about it now did he realize that there was some beauty to it, though it had been unfathomable to him before meeting her. He quickly drained the cup in a single swig, unable to bear anymore of the torture that was of his own device, barely even tasting the bitter liquid as it ran down his throat. There was nothing he loved better than a dramatic or painful ending to a dream but the feeling in reality wasn't quite as pleasant or as awe inspiring as he had once hoped.


End file.
